Page 11 of Crown of the Courtesan

Instead of a crown, he wears an iridescent circlet on his bald head. Below it, old dragon-fire burn scars cover half of his ill-looking face and neck.

The audience breaks into scattered whispers. I push through the bog of noise with my heightened hearing, listening as they exchange hushed words about his stark change in personality and appearance.

King Xander’s brother, Klay Metalla, a land-ruling ducal prince and the highest war general, watches intently from the sea of faces in the audience. He’s never participated in the Bidding Ceremony before, but perhaps he has his reasons tonight. I look at the people around him for a glimpse of Princess Klara, his teenage daughter and heir to the kingdom, but she isn’t there. Rumors have been circulating that the princess will attend events soon, but it appears that time has not yet come.

Over the assemblage, the Master of Ceremonies, a rotund and jolly man of middle years, welcomes everyone with his booming voice. It’s deep and resonant, a comforting sound to hear year after year. With a rhythm like a poem, he announces, “Ore Harvest has arrived. Summer-Set has finished. Lady Courtesans offer themselves in gowns of silver to represent the vitality and strength of Alexandria’s mining power. They evoke the protection our forges provide for our ironworks defense and the trade of powerful weapons. The fertility of the Rite symbolizes the bountiful harvest of ore and wheat. Another season, another Bidding, another honor!”

He begins calling each courtesan to the center of the room to stand on a dais edged with bands of braided iron and silver.

And there we go: courtesan after courtesan displays her best on that raised pedestal while a lone cello plays in the distance, its notes echoing and expressive. My heart aches at the beauty as the blinding lights shine on them.

Only one debutante looks sickly green around the face, but she composes herself until she finishes her turn. The room’s silence, save for the scratching of quills on parchment, bears down on everyone. They won’t announce the new Keepers until the very end.

“Lady Tabitha Rilea.”

Voices whisper.

Their delight in my failure haunts me now that I’m not as new or as interesting. Now that it’s more fun to tear down the thing they so carefully built up.

Despite it all, I step onto the dais. I do the duty I was born to do. I stand there. My face blank as a statue, barely breathing, barely living.

Quills continue to scratch around the room. It sounds too much like the whispers, and I’m unsure how long I’ll last under the lights and eyes.

The Master of Ceremonies gives me a quick nod, signaling to me that my time is over. I let out a short breath that catches in my throat. As I descend, the music changes. A harp and violin join the cello, creating a new melody marking the transition to the ritual dance.

The audience remains silent as the courtesans form a circle around the dais in the expansive space between the two seating sections. Directly beneath the dome, we begin. Our hands meet in the center before fanning out, while our complicated footsteps beat in perfect unison with the notes of music floating over the assembly.

Singing in the Dead-Fae language, our harmonizing voices join the instruments. The song, which we learned as children, is known by heart. It’s an ancient melody honoring the Spirit Goddess.

We may not understand the words, but we recognize the raw feelings she stirs within us.

Our wild, flowing skirts twirl in and out of the circle like oil paint on a smooth canvas. We repeat the steps three times. Each time, we glow brighter. Voices grow louder. A calm darkness washes over my mind—pure bliss.

We end the dance kneeling but still encircled, arms outstretched. Our cascading hair billows out as our heads tilt back to face the heavens. From above, we look like a blossoming flower ready to be plucked.

We’re the human offering to the Spirit Goddess who watches over us—protecting and inspiring our mortal selves.

There is no sound in the room until King Xander approaches, his gait much slower than normal. The Captain of the Kingsguard hands King Xander a silver goblet, allowing him to begin the next phase.

As High Lady Courtesan, I’ll be first.

My heart races, and I don’t think it’s from the exertion of the dance.

The king reaches the circle, his sharp azure eyes meeting mine. But he isn’t staring at me. He gazes beyond, clearly lost in thought. His pale, wrinkled fingers are like ice as he passes me the goblet filled with my Rite.

Priestesses dressed in ivory robes and hooded cloaks present the remaining goblets to the other courtesans. Even though I can’t see the priestesses’ faces, observing them makes my skin crawl. I tear my eyes away to watch the king chant in the Dead-Fae language after everyone receives their Rite.

I bring the Rite to my lips, sending the cold liquid to the back of my throat—its usual chalky taste is gone, replaced with a bland sweetness. I stop and look into the goblet’s base. A transparent substance sloshes in place of the regular creamy potion.

My head snaps up, but nothing seems amiss with the other courtesans. Everyone’s glow revitalizes—mine flickers but remains.

We rise to our feet.

My heart skips a beat as Balor stares at me through the crowd, but he backs into the shadows, disappearing again.

Damn it all. I don’t have time to linger on what any of this could mean.

With a scroll in hand, the Master of Ceremonies is already calling the courtesans back to the Dais of Alexandria. We move to our new positions, and before I’m able to register anything, names strike like lightning over the crowd as he announces their new Keepers to the court.